The You I Never Knew
by dcfg21
Summary: What happens when John discovers Sherlock was in a previous relationship with DI Lestrade?
1. Chapter 1

COME HOME. - JW

ON A CASE. - SH

Sherlock had just tucked the phone away in his coat when it moaned again, the low feminine gasp getting a raised eyebrow from Lestrade. He pulled it out and checked the screen.

COME HOME. NOW. - JW

"Persistent, isn't he, your John?" Lestrade chuckled, reading over his shoulder.

"It would seem so," Sherlock murmured, a small smile breaking the line of his lips at the DI's use of the phrase "your John".

"Go on, then," Lestrade urged. "I have a feeling this will still be here when he's done with you."

Another moan.

COME. THE. FUCK. HOME. - JW

Sherlock wrapped his scarf tighter and fixed Lestrade with a stony glare. "Fine. Don't let Anderson touch anything. It would take me days to sort out the idiocy."

ON MY WAY. - SH

"I'll text you any new details," Lestrade added as Sherlock turned to the curb to hail a cab.

He waved a dismissive hand toward the detective and sped off to Baker Street. Inside the cab, Sherlock turned the phone over in his hands, his thumb idly stroking the screen of the BlackBerry as thoughts of what waited for him at home crossed his mind. It wasn't like John to call him away from a case for, what was it he called it? Another quirk of the lips. A booty call? Sherlock sighed and sat back, thumb still moving softly across the phone, deliberately, as though it were part of John. John's hands, so strong, so warm, so skilled in acts infinitely more wondrous than practicing medicine.

God, he dreamed of John's hands, those marvelous fingers, able to coax his body to life in a single touch, eliciting sounds from him which he never thought humanly possible. Desperate, needy sounds. The slow drag of John's thumb across his lips. The tender trace of those fingers on his brow, his cheeks. John's hands, which knew every dip, every hollow, every secret place on his body, and how to exploit them to Sherlock's ultimate undoing. Hands which clutched and grabbed, fingers that curled into his flesh until he thought he would break. Strength and passion flowed from John's practiced fingers like the notes on his violin, drawn out in sweet agony, and John knew how to play him perfectly.

The uncomfortable bulge in his trousers brought him back to reality with a jolt and he smiled again, wondering what had his blogger in such a state of need. Might be time to get rid of the porn on the laptop. He exited the cab with a flourish and turned the handle to 221B. Might be.

Sherlock bounded up the seventeen steps, divesting himself of scarf and coat as he went. "John, I'm home!"

He crossed the threshold of the flat and had the top two buttons of his shirt undone when he spotted his lover on the sofa. Sherlock stopped cold. "You're angry."

"Excellent observation."

Sherlock frowned and dropped his hands to his side, deflated at the hard line of John's clenched jaw. Surely, he wasn't angry with him? Instantly, Sherlock's brain began sifting through the last few days, trying to lock onto any potential issue between them.

"Is this still about the eyeballs in the olive jar? Because I told you, there was no time to worry about labels or things. A man's life was-"

"No."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The fire in the sitting room? Because that really was an accident-"

"No."

"Using the jumper Harry gave you for Christmas to put out said fire? Because you said you hated-"

"No, Sherlock." John's voice was becoming more agitated.

The consulting detective shook his dark locks and sighed. "Well, I'm all out of answers, then, because I can't think of anything else..."

Sherlock's voice trailed off as John rose from the sofa and began a quiet stalk toward him. John's eyes bore holes through his as he moved and suddenly Sherlock was very unsure of whether John was planning on kissing him or punching him. He had seen this John face on both such occasions, and he steeled himself for the latter, as there was very little else about John that read 'turned on' at the moment. The ex-army doctor stopped a breath from Sherlock and peered up with a penetrating stare. Sherlock swallowed hard. Even though John was shorter than he, the look in his eyes coupled with the confidence in his stance, conveyed, no, demanded obedience.

John lifted his chin and Sherlock found himself lowering his head automatically to meet John's lips at his ear.

"Deduce."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the command delivered in a voice like velvet over steel and John moved back to sit on the sofa, perching his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The reversal of positions was not lost on the consulting detective, having sat in that similar fashion thousands of times. He didn't remember staring at anybody quite so evilly, though. Maybe Anderson. Donovan on occasion, but never John. He also tucked away that this was the first time his lover had ever looked at him like this as well.

The cold stare, complete with daggers, was concentrated solely on him, and from the rage bubbling underneath the doctor's calm demeanor, Sherlock know John meant it. So, how to appease the riled beast?

"Are you quite certain this is not about the eyeballs, John? Because-"

"Cold, Sherlock," John interrupted. His eyes narrowed. "Play the fucking game."

Another nervous swallow.

"Yes, well," Sherlock sniffed, glancing around the flat, "Ah! The kitchen." He swept eyes over the little kitchen and then back to John, who still sat unmoving, breathing with a steady cadence Sherlock knew the good doctor was fighting to keep. "The kitchen is as I left it, so you obviously didn't find the pancreas in aspic cooling in the crisper, I was going to tell you about that, but it requires two more days in situ before the proper conditions are met, and-"

"Still cold, Sherlock. I know you are better than this," John said flatly.

"Alright then," Sherlock continued as his gaze scanned the rest of the flat for evidence. His eyes hit the coffee table and the small stack of mail next to the crystal ashtray. "The mail," he said suddenly, "You've discovered the one hundred and twenty pounds I charged to your credit card for bondage equipment." Not a flicker from John. "Mrs. Hudson said it was delivered a week ago, she's been keeping it for me, the dear, oh, don't worry, it's not for us. Well, not yet anyway." He tried the crooked smile he knew drove John to distraction. Nothing. "It's an experiment for Mycroft," he went on, "regarding various restraints and pressure points used in interrogation techniques." He licked his lips as he rambled, words falling out of his mouth in a rush," And since your billing cycle ended last Thursday, you might have received the statement, depending on reliable post, naturally, and well, it's been a little spotty lately, hasn't it? But since those envelopes are still sealed-"

"Positively frigid. Hurry, Sherlock, I'm beginning to get vexed."

Vexed was an understatement. Murderous, however, was perhaps a more accurate estimation of the doctor's current state of mind.

Sherlock sniffed again. "John-" He stopped, taking in another deep breath, and recognized the delicate scent lingering in his nostrils. "Walnut oil." It was almost a whisper. John's eyebrow rose slightly. "Walnut oil," he repeated. "You smell like walnut oil. And the only two pieces of furniture in the flat that require walnut oil are our bedside table and the war-" Sherlock paused as realization set in. "The wardrobe." His eyes hit the floor as his brain processed the information. When he finally regained the courage to raise his eyes to John's, he noted he had John's full attention. "You found the box."

John's eyes never left Sherlock's as he pulled the box from behind the Union Jack pillow and set it on the coffee table.

"I found the box."

"John, I-"

The doctor's raised finger silenced him as if he'd slapped him.

The lid made a loud bang that thundered through the quiet flat as John flipped it open.

"What. The. Fuck. Is. This?" John's voice cut to the heart of him. Anguish. Pain.

John's fingers, God, those fingers, gingerly picked through the contents and with each pass, the lines on John's face grew tighter and tighter. "Ticket stubs. A fucking birthday card." He snorted a half-laugh.

"John-" The finger beckoned him to silence again.

"The photograph."

"The photograph," Sherlock parroted.

Whatever steely resolve the doctor was holding in reserve vanished and he stood, taking the photo and holding it in his fingers, examining it with outright rage, his eyelids fluttering in rapid succession as the image, Sherlock presumed, was etching itself permanently on John's psyche.

"Mementos, Sherlock!" John roared. "Sentiment!" In a move Sherlock had executed numerous times, John stepped on and over the coffee table, rushing against him in a fury, pressing the offending photo to his chest and pinning him to the back wall of the flat. "This is you and Lestrade, Sherlock! You and Lestrade!"

Jealous rage contorted John's features into an angry mask. Eyes he had seen dull and glaze over with passion glowed with alarming clarity as he grabbed Sherlock's chin and forced his face down to John's.

"Tell me the truth, Sherlock, or I swear-"

"John-"

"The truth, Sherlock!"

"Yes," he said quietly. "Me and Lestrade."

He felt the photograph crumple as John's fingers dug painfully into his chest, John's hand, God, his hand again, curling like a vice to grab a fistful of his shirt. The gesture, one done often in moments of needy abandon, rushed over him like a bucket of ice water and a small gasp escaped as he bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out.

John held fast to him and he could feel the small tremors that quaked through the doctor as he gritted out through clenched teeth, "How long, Sherlock? How. Long?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his chin from John's biting fingers. "It was a long time-"

"HOW LONG?" Sherlock flinched at the bellow.

"Three years ago," he managed. "It lasted just over a year. It's been over for a long time."

John released him and stepped back, the photo fluttering to the floor. Sherlock's hand shot out to catch it and he quickly realized his mistake as John gasped in shock.

"It-it doesn't-"

"Right," John sneered. "It doesn't mean anything. Only that you're falling all over yourself to save your precious _memento_." He ground out the last word. "The Great Sherlock Holmes," he spat, "The 'not really my area' consulting detective. Just how long were you planning on keeping this bit to yourself?"

Sherlock averted his eyes again.

"I see," John said, lowering his voice. "Did Mycroft know?"

"No. Maybe," he shook his head. "I don't know. If he did, he never said."

"I see," John said again.

"No, John, you don't see," Sherlock said quietly.

"You're right, Sherlock. I don't see. But I have _observed_. I have observed that you have taken great pains to conceal this from me. I was packing away the duvet from the bed when my hand brushed a hidden panel, a _hidden_ panel, Sherlock. And when it opened, your cache of little secrets fell right into my hands." John snorted. "Tell me, did it ever occur to you at some point, when I had your cock shoved halfway down my throat to tap me on the shoulder and say, 'Hey John, just thought you should know I've had DI Lestrade six ways from Sunday'?"

Sherlock held up his chin in defiance. "The photograph depicts nothing of the sort."

"Not in so many words, but I _observed _the look in both your eyes. You were sotted with each other, and I _deduced_, knowing what a great shag you are, that you had a leg over on Greg not once, but probably multiple times." John's voice dropped to an octave just below deadly. "And you had the audacity to pretend you didn't know his Christian name on the Baskerville case when, obviously, you had shouted it at the top of your lungs, prefaced I'm sure with 'Oh God, fuck me!'"

"John-"

"Don't, Sherlock. Just don't." The doctor turned and walked back to the sofa.

Sherlock cleared his throat with a muffled cough, causing John to turn back around.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself at all? And please, do us both a favor and think carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth. I am on the razor's edge here, Sherlock. You don't want to push me over."

Standing there, with the London moonlight filtering in through the windows of the flat, the soft light caressing every creased line of John's face, Sherlock's breath caught deep in his throat. The rigid line of John's spine, held ramrod straight at attention, the clench of those beautiful hands, the hard set of the jaw he had rained kisses on in the dark of their room. His puffs of breath were coming faster now, in shallow, disjointed gasps that wracked his lean frame. He wanted to reach out, pull the other man into his arms and just love him, unceasing, unmercifully, until the pain and the hurt were nothing but a clouded memory. The photograph fell from his hands.

"John-"

"Don't say my name, Sherlock. I can't bear to hear it on your lips knowing where they've been."

Sherlock faltered, recognizing the pounding in his chest. His brain spiraled at the onslaught of emotions, trying pitifully to catalogue and compartmentalize the feelings. Fear. Desperation. Desire. He swiped his tongue across dry lips. "I knew Lestrade was gay," he confessed. "I knew, and I used it to my advantage."

"Drugs?"

He nodded. "In the beginning. I seduced him. It was easy. But I continued to use, manipulating his feelings, to keep myself out of trouble. When he came to the flat one day and found me-" the baritone broke, "He-I-I had overdosed and he gave me CPR and called the paramedics. He saved my life."

"And you thought you would just keep shagging him senseless to what, say thank you?"

"I was grateful, yes," Sherlock hissed. "Other than Mycroft in his odd way, he was the only one who showed me any sort of true kindness. And it went from there. I owed him that much."

John snorted. "How noble of you."

Pain twisted Sherlock's insides and he cried out, "He stayed with me, John! After everything. He stayed."

"I STAYED!" John erupted, shaking his hands at Sherlock. "I stayed, you insufferable prat, through the insults, the cases, through the havoc you have wreaked upon me since I first laid eyes on you at Barts! Do you know what this does to me? Do you even care? You should have told me I wasn't the first!"

"You knew I wasn't inexperienced with sex."

"That's not what I'm talking about, you bloody git, and you well know it! I couldn't give a toss if you've shagged all of England! And yet you stand there and expound upon something that even you should have realized was a cornerstone of _this _relationship!" John paused, fighting for breath. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You were in a goddamned relationship with Greg Lestrade! Don't you think that was something I needed to know?"

"Irrelevant at the time."

John barked out a sharp laugh. "Did you tell him you loved him?"

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"And mean it, you bastard?"

Eyes to the floor.

"Fuck me, I'm out of here." John rushed past him in a flurry of black jacket and cable knit wool.

He reached out and grabbed for John's sleeve. "Don't go, John. Please." The pounding in his chest slowed, like a clock winding down, and he felt as if he were drowning, his heart shattering into pieces. The void seemed to swallow him.

"Let go of me, Sherlock, or I will break your arm in three places before you can blink."

The doctor's name slipped past his lips on a breath and suddenly, desperately, he was pulling John in close, crushing his mouth to his.

The backhanded fist made his teeth rattle and a rush of blood filled his mouth as John jerked free. He crumpled to the floor, feeling the salt of hot tears mix with the metallic taste of blood between his lips. He didn't look up when he heard John's heavy footfalls bounding down the stairs. Not even when he heard the slam of the front door.

He lay there on the floor, tucked into a ball, rocking back and forth, as he convulsed into gut-wrenching sobs. Several minutes passed, and then he heard the door of the flat creak open.

"John?" He croaked, beginning to rise.

"No, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through the din in his head. It was soft, soothing. "You boys having a bit of a domestic?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sank back down. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid we are."


	2. Chapter 2

COMING OVER. BE HOME. - JW

ON A DATE. CAN THIS WAIT? - GL

GET RID OF HIM. OR I WILL. - JW

JOHN? - GL

JUST FUCKING DO IT. - JW

DONE. YOU OWE ME. THIS ONE WAS A DOCTOR. ;) - GL

BE THERE IN 20. YOU CAN COLLECT THEN. - JW

Water dripped from the edge of his jacket and the hem of his jeans and was steadily pooling on the mat outside of DI Gregory Lestrade's flat. A cold shiver ran down his spine and John was unsure if it was from the pouring rain or from the knowledge of what he was about to do. He raised his fist to the door and for a moment, considered knocking politely. But it was only a moment. He pounded on the door with three loud bangs and bellowed, "Lestrade!"

The door flung open and Lestrade's eyes widened as he took in John's soggy state, grabbing the doctor with one hand and pulling him inside. "Christ, John! You'll wake the whole street! Come in before you catch your death."

John swept past him into the flat, fists clenched at his side, steeling himself for what was to come. Deep inside, he knew he should feel wrong about coming here, delving into things long gone, but the thought of Sherlock, his Sherlock, keeping secrets was too much to bear. He'd forgiven Sherlock many transgressions, but this was in a league of its own. He lowered the timbre of his voice. "Shut the door, Greg."

"Yeah, alright." Greg shut the door and followed John further inside.

John looked around the flat, eyes raking over every surface. The space was tidy, warmly appointed, if a bit Spartan, characteristics which matched the DI's personality perfectly. The light scent of an herbal aftershave lingered in the air.

"The boyfriend gone, then?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Only just, and he's not really my boyfriend. This was our fourth, and now probably our last, date."

John glared at him. "Two pints on the coffee table, pillows are mussed. Bit of a snog while throwing back a few and watching Doctor Who repeats?"

"John-"

John's tone went from captain to cruel. "He's younger than you, this doctor. Aftershave suggests the new Burberry fragrance. You wear Gray Flannel. Old men wear Gray Flannel. My father wore Gray Flannel. CD's next to the hi-fi are all the new pop rage. You probably met him at a club. You're wearing tight jeans, new, designer, and a t-shirt. You never wear tees. Bare feet, so you're comfortable with him, but it's the fourth date and you're still only snogging. No sex yet, you're going slow. Don't want to scare him off. Suggests a younger, trendy man coming to terms with his homosexuality. You're awfully quiet. How am I doing, Greg?"

Lestrade's face fell into a frown. "Sherlock's rubbing off on you. You're turning into a right bastard."

"Well, I'm not the only one with some experience with that, am I? Sherlock rubbing off on you?"

The look of pure shock on the DI's face should have pleased him. He could almost understand how Sherlock got off on this, the knowing things nobody else did and pointing it out in tactless detail. Almost. It should have pleased him, given him the sort of smug satisfaction he'd seen cross Sherlock's face hundreds of times. But it didn't. It only pissed him off even more.

"I found the photo, Greg. You and Sherlock."

Greg swallowed and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Brighton," he whispered.

John bit back the laugh. "Brighton? A lover's tryst at the seaside? How quaint."

"It was a long time ago, John. You have to believe-"

"Don't tell me what to believe!" He shouted, the anger coming in a heated rush, spreading like wildfire through his veins. He forced it down, swallowed it, felt it ball into a hard knot in his gut and growled in a voice like death, "What I believe, no, what I know, is that the two of you were never planning on telling me any of this. Letting me go on blundering about like an idiot. And that makes me angry, Greg. Very, very angry."

Lestrade took a step forward, but paused, frozen by the glare in John's eyes. He held his hands up defensively, "Look, I told Sherlock, when I found out about the two of you, that he needed to tell you. About the past. About us. I told him, John. But he said to let it go. And you know how he is. You know Sherlock."

"Intimately."

"So, I dropped it. I honestly figured he would-"

"And now we're back to everyone doing exactly as the sainted Sherlock tells them to, are we? Afraid to cross him or be cut down by that brilliant brain of his?"

"John, I told him-" Lestrade pleaded.

"Not anymore," John said with conviction. "The days of Sherlock Holmes issuing orders are over. Over."

Greg crossed the floor to stand in front of him, the detective's face a mixture of fear and empathy. But something else glowed behind his eyes. A sliver of something knowing, something only now coming to the surface. "John, you have to understand-"

John shook his head as he chuckled, "No, the time for understanding has long past. Maybe, just maybe, if the two of you had said something, anything, right at the beginning, I could have understood, but now," he paused, licking his lips as his eyes roved over the DI, "I'm afraid I'm well beyond understanding. I'm moving toward a course of action." He reached out with one hand and curled his fingers into Greg's shirt, pulling him close enough to taste the faint traces of his cologne. "Rules of engagement, and all that. It's your turn to understand."

Lestrade's breath hitched as he looked down at the doctor's hand. "This isn't a battle, John. You don't have to fight me for him."

"Don't I?"

The word was a whisper. "No."

A dark smile slid across John's face. "Then don't fight me."

John swallowed Greg's gasp of surprise, which this time pleased him greatly as he ground his mouth against the DI in a clash of lips and teeth. Greg's hands automatically came up to grab hold of John's jacket to push him away. All other protest vanished as John tightened his grip and moved his other hand around to the back of Greg's head, deepening the kiss, deftly sliding his tongue into his mouth, eliciting a low rumble of acquiescence. John took a step back, keeping their bodies together, swiftly reversing their positions and forcing Greg onto the sofa with a loud grunt.

"John!" Lestrade panted.

"Shut up, Greg," he managed as his tongue made another hot pass in the sweet recesses of Greg's mouth. Another heated moan from the DI. He pulled back for a second, tugging off the wet jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a soggy plop, and immediately returned to cover Greg's body with his own. He rolled his hips with a brutal thrust, feeling the detective's hardness through the thick layers of denim that separated them, the rough slide of fabric igniting a surprising fire in his own loins.

Greg's mouth opened in a long moan and John pressed harder, leaning down to capture his mouth again. His hand snaked a blistering trail down Greg's body and grabbed at the steadily growing erection beneath his palm.

"It's the deduction, isn't it?" he murmured, tracing his tongue across the fullness of Greg's lips, licking the corner of his mouth. "It turns you on, doesn't it? Watching his mind at work?"

"God, yes," he croaked.

"I know," John chuckled. "It drives me insane. Makes me hard as a rock. It's all I can do to keep from bending him over right there and riding him halfway to Scotland. And I don't give a fuck who bloody sees it." Greg groaned again, pushing into John's hand.

"John! Ah, fuck!"

"Did he touch you like this?" John rasped, biting down hard on Greg's lower lip. The DI cried out, a lustful bellow, and John tasted the drop of blood on his lips. He licked and swiped it clean, his lips softly rubbing against the cut. "Did he?"

"Yes," Greg hissed.

His hand closed again around the rigid length of flesh and squeezed, causing Greg's eyes to slam shut and his head loll to the side. "Oh, God, John, yes!"

John pulled back, his hands clawing beneath the hem of Greg's shirt, flat palms skimming up the hard, muscled planes of his abdomen, feeling every ripple underneath his fingers as they moved slowly upward. Greg arched into the caress, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Back down again, John's hands moved, delighting in the sensation of the detective's skin against his own.

Greg reached out, clamoring to grab hold of John, but he quickly caught both the DI's hands in his own and forced them above Greg's head, pinning him to the sofa. "No," he said firmly.

Lestrade shifted in his grasp, wriggling in vain to get free. John's hands tightened, forcing his weight down, crushing the DI's wrists, immobilizing him.

"NO," John commanded, and Greg stilled, all but for the heavy pants, staring into his eyes. Acceptance slowly moved into Greg's eyes and he swallowed hard, relaxing, spreading his legs wider to accommodate the doctor's weight.

John grinned in a sinister smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Much better," he said as he lowered his lips to the column of Greg's throat. He placed rough, hard kisses along the solid length, relishing the breathy, whimpering moans coming from the detective. He let his tongue trace idle circles, grazing his teeth across the sensitive skin, moving to the fluttering pulse point beneath Greg's jaw.

"Did he taste you like this? Move his mouth on you?" Another sharp bite. Another anguished hiss. "Did you want him to devour you?" he murmured, breathing Greg's scent, the hint of lemon, oak, and sandalwood, a fragrance so unlike Sherlock's. _Sherlock._ The name sent a hot sizzle of electricity straight to his groin, the sudden rush of hardness spurring him on. He ground against Greg again, wanting to increase the sweet pressure that was building. "I'll bet he spent hours worshipping at this neck, didn't he?"

"Yes!" The admission was a half-choked wail as John's lips hovered over the throbbing pulse, pausing briefly before bearing down hard to suck.

John's mouth broke into a smile as he moved back to Greg's lips, luscious with the rosy pout of desire, and thrust his tongue inside. This time Greg opened for him, wide and deep, allowing him access to every awakened corner, meeting his tongue with a frenzied reciprocation that was doing treacherous things to his resolve. God, he tasted good. Tasted of all things dark and desirous, dangerous and devilish, fevered and flushed. The detective's body was an enigma of hard and soft, an erotic amalgam so unique to Greg alone. It begged to be explored, understood, conquered. Now he knew the attraction. Sherlock drawn into this game, using his hands and mouth and body to complete the puzzle, using those long fingers to manipulate every piece until he got to the very heart of Lestrade. It was maddening. Addictive. And it called to him.

He pressed hot kisses from Greg's mouth to the set of his jaw, clenched tight with need, to the soft flesh of his ear. He blew a long, steamy breath across the appendage, tracing the outline with the flick of a pointed tongue. Greg rolled his into John's face, groaning and shifting, seeking more friction between their lower halves. John gave the ear one moist swipe with the flat of his tongue and captured Greg's earlobe firmly between his teeth. The DI bucked woefully and nearly came off the sofa when he bit down and began to suckle.

"John!"

His carefully measured control almost snapped at the wanton cry, but he hissed, "That's it, Greg. Just keep saying my name."

The DI did just that, murmuring the muffled endearment through pants and gasps.

John rolled his hips again, thrusting hard, and closed his eyes at the delicious rush of pleasure. He pulled back and stared down at Greg, enjoying every twitch of muscle, every flicker of passion that moved across his face. The detective was bloody gorgeous.

"Did you love him?" The question was soft this time. Real.

Greg's eyes flew open and he stared into his irises, drinking in the clouded haze of desire he saw in their depths. He opened and closed his mouth, jaw working, but no sound came out. Greg swallowed hard and finally managed, "I never stopped."

John's hiss of indrawn breath startled them both and Greg rushed to speak again.

"But it ended. I promise you, John. It ended."

"Do you still want him?" John asked, desperately trying to keep his voice from breaking, steeling himself against the answer.

"I would never come between the two of you. I know Sherlock. What you have together is different. Stronger." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "We can't go back. It's only the two of you going forward."

John blinked twice and released Greg, rising suddenly to his feet. The loss of contact with the warmth of the detective's body made him shiver. He was still wet. Wet and cold.

"What? John, I don't understand…" Greg's voice trailed off.

The state of play became crystal clear and John realized the parameters of his plan had just shifted in a direction he was unsure he could follow. One more look into the bewildered and aroused face of the Detective Inspector made him pause. His spine stiffened and he drew himself up, army straight, all of his training unconsciously seeping into his bones, making the final call. He retrieved the damp jacket from the floor and shrugged it on. Captain John Hamish Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers returned.

"Put your shoes on. We're going home. And you're paying for the cab."

He wasn't surprised when Lestrade obeyed without question.


	3. Chapter 3

Just as he was told, the Detective Inspector peeled off a wad of pound notes for the cabbie and came to stand behind him at the front door of 221B. John sidestepped him and held out his hand in invitation. "After you."

Lestrade cast nervous eyes from the ex-army doctor to the door, took a deep breath and turned the handle.

John ticked off a three-count in his head as they walked up the stairs, and sure enough at three, he heard scrambling and a woeful, "John? John, is that you?" in Sherlock's unmistakable baritone. Greg paused and looked back at him, but John's raised eyebrow made him turn and continue up the stairs in silence.

As they breached the threshold, the door to the flat swung open on its hinges to reveal the tear and blood-stained face of Sherlock Holmes. "John, I was so worried. I-" His words died at the sight of the DI. Sherlock blinked twice in confusion. "Greg? What are-Where's John?"

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Greg mumbled, moving past Sherlock into the flat.

Sherlock caught sight of John as he followed Greg in and shut the door with a soft click. The consulting detective rushed forward in a flurry of bare feet and rumpled blue silk, but John held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Don't, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a few tentative steps backward, then lowered his eyes to the floor and went back to the sofa, shoulders hunched over his lithe frame like a scolded child. As John divested himself of jacket and jumper, Sherlock turned to Lestrade and eyed him quizzically, as if it were the first time he noticed the DI in the room.

"I was on a date," he replied before Sherlock could ask.

"Oh, Greg," he sighed, tilting his head. "You're not picking them up at the clubs again, are you?" Lestrade frowned at him. "What are you even doing here?"

Greg shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure."

John sniffed loudly as he turned to face the two men. "Well, this is nice, isn't it? The lovebirds reacquainting themselves?"

"John-" Sherlock began.

"Do shut up, Sherlock,"

Sherlock's mouth closed with an audible click at the command in John's voice.

"He's here because I want him here. And that's all you need to know for now."

Sherlock cast a puzzled glance from the present lover to the former, but stayed silent.

John let out a low breath and went to Sherlock, peering up into that beautiful face, grey-green eyes fuzzy with warmth and confusion staring back down at him. His gaze rested on the purplish lump at Sherlock's mouth and cheek and he reached up, brushing the pad of his thumb across the injury. He brought his eyes back up to meet Sherlock's, still caressing the bruised flesh. Sherlock said nothing. John's hand dropped to his side and he moved to stand in front of Lestrade. His hand moved again and Sherlock's eyes latched onto it as it slowly worked its way up Greg's chest in a rough slide. The DI swallowed and closed his eyes, but kept still.

John pressed the flat of his palm over Greg's heart, pleased to feel it beating rapidly. The DI's face was flushed, his breathing coming in fluttery gasps. Greg's eyes opened and followed John as he moved to Greg's side, not breaking contact. He cast a glance back to Sherlock, whose eyes had darkened to gunmetal. His breathing was choppy as well.

"I was angry, Sherlock," he began quietly, his voice steady and even. "Jealous to the point of violence. I don't like becoming that man." He drew in a long breath. "Not at all. So, I thought, how best to get rid of him, that angry, jealous man? And it came to me, like a light bulb switching on in the dark. The key lies with Lestrade." John's hand started its travels again, this time a short trail from Greg's chest up to his neck. He pressed his palm firmly around the DI's throat, fingers curling in with increasing pressure, causing a flicker of unease to skitter across his face. "What was it about him, I wondered, that was so appealing to you, so memorable, that you needed to hide it away? Yes, the DI is extremely attractive, but I know that's not enough for you to want to sink your teeth in. What was so enduringly special that you couldn't bear to erase it from your hard drive? And then I remembered the box. Did you take out those trinkets on occasion and reminisce? Did you look at that photo and remember all the times you wrapped those long limbs around him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear? Because we both know you're chatty after you come. Did it turn you on, to remember? I bet it did. Did you pleasure yourself?" His eyes narrowed. "Oh, I'm sure you did."

His fingers tightened around the DI's throat, making Greg's eyes go wide with fear. He coughed under the vice of John's fingers, struggling to breathe.

Sherlock took a daring step forward. "John, you're hurt-"

"Just shut up and stand there, Sherlock." John warned. "I'm not finished. This is not finished." He paused before continuing, "And then I thought, what must it have been like, lying beneath this man, touching him? Kissing him?" His voice dropped. "Fucking him?" John released his hold on Greg's throat and moved it slowly around to the collar of Greg's shirt. "So, I realized what I needed to do. Since you were obviously pleased with your choice of chew toy, I decided..." he pulled aside the collar to reveal the mottled patch of skin at the base of Greg's neck, "it was time I took a bite."

Sherlock's eyes were saucers as they found the mark, a hiss slowly crossing his lips. "John-"

"Take off the dressing gown, Sherlock." Blue silk swished to the floor. "Now sit down." Sherlock sat, mesmerized.

John dipped his head, placing his lips over the reddened flesh. The DI moaned, leaning his head back into the doctor. John plucked at Greg's t-shirt and whispered in his ear, "You're not picking up anybody else tonight, Greg. Take off the shirt."

Lestrade stripped it off in a flash while John removed his own shirt and kicked off his trainers. The DI's shoes quickly joined the pile. He wound his arms around Greg's waist and returned to his vigil of kissing Greg's neck while staring holes into Sherlock. He bit down hard, for no other reason than he could, and Greg gasped, reaching an arm around to press John's head closer. He didn't remove it. Sherlock moaned lightly from the sofa, his eyes glued to the scene.

"You're still overdressed, Sherlock," he murmured. The black silk boxers joined the robe, leaving him completely naked. Naked and hard.

John continued his assault of Greg's neck, pausing between kisses to speak. "He is delicious, I'll give you that. I would enjoy tasting every corner of him." He moved his hand down, popping the fly on Greg's jeans, venturing lower beneath the fabric to grasp the DI's hard length. Lestrade groaned loudly and rolled his hips wantonly against the pressure.

"John!" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, his hand reaching for his own erection.

"No!" he barked, instantly stilling Sherlock. "You will watch."

"Please," Sherlock panted. "Please, John-"

"Watch."

Sherlock's hand dropped his side with a pained wail, curling his fingers into the edge of the sofa cushions.

John busied himself at Greg's neck and shoulder, alternating between kissing and biting, rubbing his chest against the DI's bare back, delighting in the friction of skin on skin. He slid his hands up to Greg's hips, slowly easing off his jeans. They joined the pile of clothing on the floor. Sherlock's gasp matched his own as his hungry eyes drank in the DI's muscled form.

"Good God, Greg, you're built like a brick shithouse. What else have you been hiding from me?" he chuckled. Hands moved back to Greg's cock, gently stroking the erect member.

"Sweet Christ, John! That's so good!"

Another grimace from Sherlock as John softly kicked off his own jeans, leaving all three of them naked. He pressed himself against Greg again and replaced his hands and mouth on the DI, pulling him closer, cementing his erection against Greg's chiseled backside. He rolled his hips forward, pushing the length of his cock between the cleft of Greg's buttocks and began to rock.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, "Please! I need-"

"No, Sherlock. Not yet."

He released his hold on Greg and directed him to Sherlock's green chair, taking him firmly by the shoulders and shoving him down in the seat. Greg reached to pull him down, but John swiftly captured his hands, placing them on the arms of the chair.

"Are you watching, Sherlock?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yes, John! God, yes!" was the strained reply.

John lowered to the floor, running his hands along Greg's thighs, easing his legs apart. He got no resistance as he slid down to John's level and the DI sucked in a waiting breath. Touching him was like heaven, and he closed one hand tight around Greg's cock and began to stroke him again. The DI's restless pants morphed into a full on groan as John opened his mouth and swallowed Greg's cock. Greg tried to raise his hands to John's head, but John forced them back down, never ceasing the maddening up and down slide of his mouth. He purred low in his throat, the hot rumble meant to tease the DI to distraction. Up and down again, he worked Greg's cock over, the blunt tip hitting the back of his throat as Greg's head thrashed side to side. Perfect. Lestrade was perfect. The salty sweet taste of him coated his tongue and he eagerly continued to suck, savoring both the taste and the feel.

John felt his fingers curl into the hard musculature of Greg's thighs of their own volition, his short nails threatening to break skin. He knew the DI wouldn't care if they did. The slight sting did indeed please the Detective Inspector as he moaned in ecstasy, arching up to meet John's touch.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Greg's knuckles go white as he clenched the arms of the chair in a death grip. John's fingers moved to thread through Greg's and squeezed.

The DI picked up on the unspoken cue and let go, bringing both hands to fist in John's hair.

John closed his eyes at the contact, loving the hard tugs at his scalp. He swirled his tongue around Greg's cock in lazy circles, treating the entire length to generous wet swipes of his mouth.

Sherlock's painful whimpering reached out to his ears, and the keening sound tugged at his heart. He pulled off Greg just long enough to shout, "Now, Sherlock!" and recaptured Greg's long length.

A deep sigh of relief came from the sofa. He didn't look up, but his ears rejoiced at the familiar sound of Sherlock working himself over. He allowed himself the pleasure of a few more heated passes over the DI, enjoying the feel of keeping the sexy Detective Inspector all to himself for the moment. For the moment.

Greg's throaty moans worked their way down his spine, the desperate sounds of pleasure shooting like stars straight to his cock.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes, those beautiful eyes that haunted his dreams, burning a hole in his back. He knew Sherlock liked to watch and a small part of him felt an intense satisfaction of giving him an eyeful. On the floor, between Greg's thighs, sucking him off with a vengeance, the DI's low growls and strained movements, creating the erotic spectacle for Sherlock's eyes alone. This pleased him. Somewhere deep, something primal had found its way to the surface, rearing its fierce head, calling them all to an end none of them could have imagined possible. It was thrilling, this hedonism, the raw sexual power vibrating through the room was almost too much to bear. Almost. And as all the pieces fell together in a preordained destiny, John's heart clenched in surrender. The outcome was unexpected, unimagined, and now as it burned into his soul, he realized they were all past the point of no return.

Sheer, unadulterated joy swept through him at the realization and there was no longer any doubt in his mind. This was the end. The pinnacle of perfection they had all been looking for.

His right hand shot out behind him in silent invitation, beckoning Sherlock forward. No words were needed and instantly, Sherlock appeared, capturing Greg's mouth in a passionate kiss he knew was a long time in coming. His mouth dropped away from Greg and he replaced it with his hand in a gripping and twisting motion.

Greg released a muffled cry as Sherlock ravaged his mouth and John could see the buried emotions between both men as they kissed.

His heart swelled at the sight, intense love for the both of them flaring to life. Jealousy no longer lived here, in the shadowy corners of his heart, pushed aside by deeper, darker desires.

Sherlock pulled away and touched his forehead to Greg's and John stilled, watching in rapt silence as the connections broken between them began to mend. Greg smiled and stroked Sherlock's cheek tenderly, and John was not surprised to see unshed tears welling in both their eyes. It was as if the world had come full circle, right here, in this moment, everything locked together seamlessly.

Sherlock's voice was ragged as he stared into Greg's eyes. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

John reached up and gave Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze. Those grey-green eyes met his as Sherlock squeezed back and smiled. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for bringing him back to me."

"To us," John replied. He looked at Greg. "If he'll have us."

The corners of Greg's mouth turned up. "Was there ever a doubt?"

"I love you," Sherlock said suddenly. "I love you both."

The DI closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair. His voice caught. "I've waited so long to hear that again."

John stood and pulled Greg from the chair, turning and reseating himself. He gave Sherlock a heated stare and whispered, "Show me."

Greg moved aside as Sherlock knelt at his feet, sliding his mouth over John's cock. It was like coming home. He watched as Greg's hands traced the line of Sherlock's back, raising his hips in the air. The question in Greg's eyes was unmistakable and John smiled.

"Take him."

Sherlock whimpered as Lestrade licked his palm and centered himself against Sherlock's backside. John concentrated on the familiar feel of Sherlock's mouth, like heated silk, and he threw his head back, lost in glorious sensation. His hands clung to Sherlock's dark locks, keeping him still as Greg worked his way inside. Sherlock gasped and John's fingers tightened, biting into Sherlock's scalp. Greg rocked back and forth, one hand on Sherlock's hip, the other reaching around to stroke Sherlock's cock. They moved in tandem, all three, finding an easy rhythm with little effort, the timing as precise and meticulous as clockwork.

The pressure began to build in a sweet fire at the base of John's spine, flashing like quicksilver straight to his cock. Coiling and spiraling upwards, the need swept over him and he let go with a hoarse cry of, "Sherlock!" The orgasm was blinding in its intensity, hitting him with the force of a gunshot, a round chambered and fired, and he erupted in a tide of searing heat. Sherlock swallowed, running his tongue in one last sweeping pass and released John. Both John's hands came up to cup Sherlock's face as he grunted against the rock and roll of Greg's thrusts.

John met him in a thunderous kiss, reaching down, hands intertwining with Lestrade's to rocket Sherlock to his completion. He felt Sherlock, warm and wet, on his abdomen, but kept the kiss, opening wide to swallow Sherlock's fevered cry of release.

The DI pushed into Sherlock twice more before reaching his own peak, screaming, "Sherlock!" at the top of his lungs. John slid from the chair as they collapsed, sweaty and spent, at the foot of the chair. As limbs tangled together, seeking as much contact as possible, Greg reached out, pulling John's face to his and the doctor opened for the kiss. He felt seeking hands in his hair, Greg's fingers, short and rough, and Sherlock's, long and divine.

John broke the embrace, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, turning his face to Greg's. His voice was low and commanding as he spoke to the DI. "Do you see him? He belongs to me. Do you understand?"

Greg's voice was a husky whisper. "Yes."

"This," he paused, "This belongs to us. There will never be another. Never. Can you accept that, Greg?"

The DI nodded.

"Sherlock?"

"Never."

"Good." John sighed and settled back, content.

Sherlock chuckled.

"What?" Greg asked, running his hand over John's chest.

"I was just thinking that Mycroft should buy us a bigger bed."

John smiled. "Obviously."


End file.
